fish talk

I tend to fish alone. But I have some good fishing buddies, too: Bob, BJ, Ian and my father-in-law, Tom, to name a few. I've often thought about what makes a good fishing buddy. It's complicated. But the first rule is none of them jaw the whole time we're fishing. This is paramount. Because you're not going to catch fish if you're talking about what you watched last night on TV.
There is plenty of time to talk on the ride out and the ride back. And occasionally, to meet back at the truck or the tackle box to give a progress report:
"Lost one, but got a little speck."
"Thought I had one, but it was a skate."
"Beer?"
That's pretty much the size of it. Fishing is a tremendous feeling, it's really a stress-reducer, and, most importantly, it puts things into perspective. Some folks like to run 26 miles, others like to shoot pool or see a shrink. Me? Fishing. There is hardly a problem I can't solve while staring in to the sea or into a crystal clear brook. That's probably because I don't think of the problem while fishing. And some part of that logic translates to if I don't think about it, then chances are it's not really a big problem.
Now, if it is a big problem and my mind is set on mulling it over while staring out into the water, then chances are I'm praying about it at the same time, and that usually does a good job of taking care of things.
I remember taking two of my friends, Jerry, a cop from my hometown, and Ian, a guy I work at the paper with, to the Outer Banks in North Carolina for some bluefish, striper and whatever else we could catch. It was a four-day jaunt, complete with rundown old motel with a sink and a stove so we could eat what we caught in a little town called Buxton, which just happens to be close to the farthest point out on the Atlantic.
Needless to say, it's debatable who has more high-stress jobs, the cop or the editor. One thing's for certain: They're both very high-stress jobs. Somehow, the world seems all right once that line is chucked into the water. The sound of the surf pounding the sandbars, the crisp, slat-laced November wind rushing into your lungs, the sun and shore is better than the best massage or shrink money can buy.
I've done this a few times, but like I said, it was these guys' first trip out to the banks. I think they might have been a little worried when I was building up the trip as a change your life experience.
Either that, or it was me telling them that we'll fish a solid 12 hours a day up there. We'll be dead asleep at 8 p.m. and back up at 5 a.m. to do it all over. And we'll be on our feet the entire day, except when we kneel down to cut more bait.
That can be daunting. Because I remember my first trip with Bob and BJ (his first, too). We left right after work, drove through the night, slept for maybe an hour then went fishing. The time after that, instead of checking in at the lodge, we went right to the beach and fished. That was 2 a.m. and we didn't stop until 7 p.m.
Needless to say, having been awake for something like 36 hours, I was hallucinating.
I told Jerry and Ian these stories, after which, I thought I'd be fishing alone that weekend. But they were sports, and they came along.
They bought neoprine waders, bought or borrowed some fishing gear and hunkered down for three full days of being abused by the sea. I showed them the proper knots, what bait we use and what the rigging was, pointed to the ocean and we went our own ways.
Now, with 200 yards of line pounding in the surf, there would be a lot of untangling to do if you were shoulder to shoulder, chatting away about how the Patriots are going to do in the playoffs this year. So, naturally, we put our tackle and bag chairs way up past the high-tide mark (where they will still get swamped by the occasional rogue wave) and walk down to the water with our enormous rods, splitting up til we're just out of earshot, which is about 50 yards because of the pound of the surf.
We've developed a whole sign language of our own. Basically, if you need a beer, you fake like drinking a can. If you got something, you look at the guy excitedly. If you don't, but the rod's bent, you just shake your head. The only other signal I can think of is looking straight up and smiling. That means, "Dude, this is awesome."
On the first day out, we were loaded up on biscuits and gravy, had one cooler full of fresh mullet for bait and another with a case of beer (conservative guess here), and in one hand a cup of coffee, the other a 12-foot surf rod.
After we got our lines out, got comfortable in the surf and with the gear, I looked over to my right and saw Ian chilling out. Jerry was doing much the same on my left. I just smiled. In the next three hours, we might have said four words to each other. I landed a nice little puppy drum and Jerry got into a 3-foot black tip shark.
There were a few whiting hopping around in the surf. I threw my line in again, put the rod into a sand spike and walked over to Ian.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"Great."
"What are you thinking about?"
He hesitated, and almost sounded surprised to hear himself say, Nothing."
We smiled, and I said, "Exactly."
He just laughed.
I had the exact same conversation with Jerry not 2 minutes later.
Except he swatted me on the shoulder and chuckled.
See, there's really no reason to feel the need to converse endlessly. A good fishing partner understands this, too. It's as if we're there for support, as are they, and again to drink beer every so often. There's a whole different type of communication with nature, and we're all a part of it. I can experience that on any old trout stream or in the weeds trying to coax out stubborn reds. But the ocean has it's own song.
That's really what it's all about. Now, multiply that by three or four days of staring into the sea, listening to the surf, catching big fish, and you get the idea. You walk off the beach as if you were just born, or born again.
For the first time in a long time, you remember what it was like to be a boy, with no responsibilities, no deadlines, no pressure. Just fish.
Of course it ends, but that's OK, too. There's usually a nice, long drive or ferry ride home that serves as sort of a re-entry so that you don't hit the atmosphere too hard and burn. There are stories to tell, fish to keep frozen, plans to be made for the next time.
And that feeling of being on the beach sticks with you for some time.
And when you forget, you'll find traces to remind you: grains of fine sand lodged under your floor mat, salt spray stuck to the corner of your tackle box, the smell of the surf on a windbreaker.
And just when life again gets intolerable, well, that's when you start making plans for the next trip.